Musings of a Royal Bastard
by Felandris09
Summary: King Alistair reminisces about his life- and his recent night with the Inquisitor and her commander. - NSFW - References and initiates the sequel to Diplomatic Ties


"Thank you, that'll be all."

"But Your Ma-

"_Thank you_, Ardenna. Have a nice evening."

Blushing at the mention of her name, the petite servant girl almost forgot to curtsy before leaving.

King Alistair turned the key behind her then leaned against the heavy double door. Closing his tired eyes for a second, he sighed in grateful relief at another long day having finally found its end.

He couldn't even remember how many times he had nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm, or how many hands had been shaken in the course of all the meetings and public outings he'd attended since the beginning of the week. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy mingling with Ferelden's people, commoners and nobles alike- if anything, he wished he had more opportunities. Even after all these years, though, there were times when he felt uncomfortable with the amounts of attention, awkward oaf that he (_still!_) was. Although his tenure had brought its fair share of positive changes to people's lives, there was something about the expectations, the _hope _he saw in their eyes that intimidated him and brought back his old insecurities with full force.

Walking over to the ornate dresser, he began taking off his finery. Any musings on political successes were cut off abruptly when his fingers brushed past the small necklace that had rested concealed under his fancy shirt. He drew in a sharp breath, rolling the small stone pendant in his hand. Even without looking at it he could feel the outlines of the Cousland crest etched into the smooth material.

Closing his fingers over the cool oval, Alistair tried to breathe slowly against the sudden heaviness in his chest. _Ah, yes_\- _this was what all these appointments had been good for_, he realised with a humourless smile, _distractions_. As challenging and stressful as the week had been, he had managed to avoid the dreaded thought lingering at the edge of his consciousness.

_Ten years_. It was hard to fathom. Ten years, almost to the day, since he'd lost Elissa to the Archdemon, to their _cause_. And this was all he had left of her, he thought, suddenly bitter. _Here's peace, glory and endless supplies of cheese- all you need to give up is the love of your life_. _Simple, really._

He still remembered the day of her last rites all-too vividly- the small shore outside Highever Village, the Revered Mother's solemn words as Elissa's ashes were strewn into the Waking Sea. The shrill echoes of her brother's desperate cries being carried across the harsh waves. His own quiet, incredulous anguish, comprehension so cruelly not setting in for days after.

And here he was a decade later and _older_. Gawking at himself in the mirror and noticing how ever more prominent those fine lines were becoming under the mask of cheerful joviality. Astonished at how he could recall her funeral so well when the memory of Elissa herself seemed to evade him a little more every day. The colour of her eyes, the feel of her skin, the ring of her laugh- all of these were slowly becoming shadows, faded at the edge of his mind. More slow, calming breaths as his throat tightened. He'd become good at those over the years.

There had, of course, been numerous attempts by various parties to create _new_ memories for him. He had long since lost count of the times he'd been approached by nobles of all ranks, races and origins, directly and indirectly, drunk and sober, subtly and, _well_, not-so-subtly. And if it wasn't some tipsy Orlesian comtesse trying to drag him under her skirts or Antivan merchants all but hawking their daughters to him, he could always count on his chief advisor, formerly Arl of Redcliffe, to remind him of his kingly duty- _'You _must_ ensure succession to the throne, Alistair'_.

The thought of leaving behind a poor, half-orphaned child was of little more appeal to him than the ritual he had once refused, but a necessity he recognised in securing continued peace for his country (_soppy patriot that he was at heart_). Eventually he would, of course, give in- find a lovely lady, produce that heir then sit back in his throne, relax and wait for the Taint to take him. He just hadn't let Eamon in on this yet.

Since the use of _professional_ _services_ had never appealed to him either, he had been pretty much celibate since his coronation, safe for a scattered few encounters- careful, anonymous and hasty, a mere satisfaction of basic needs.

Until recently, that was.

Now just in his smalls, he extinguished all but one of the lights around his chambers, the size of which never failed to remind him just how alone he was.

Lying down in his enormous bed (_ditto_), he pulled up the light blanket and relaxed into the soft pillows, looking up at the high decorated ceiling. Not for the first time, his train of thought was shifting to his stay at Skyhold Fortress.

The way his trip there, meant for trade negotiations, had become a success of a whole different sort, never failed to make him smile.

He had found Commander Cullen a very relatable fellow- more or less his age and with his own share of demons, their experiences during the Blight an immediate common ground. Cullen had looked older than the last time they'd met, but so much for the better. Alistair had rather enjoyed the camaraderie that had so quickly, _so naturally_, developed between the two of them- the boyish, almost playful attitude, ignorant of rank or status, that he couldn't remember having with anyone else in far too long.

And he had, of course, been delighted to see that Cullen and Lady Trevelyan had found happiness in each other- a small portion of which they had then decided to share with him. _Sort of._

Following the initial shock at Cullen's proposal, he had quickly decided not to analyse or question their exact motivations –_or his own_\- too much. If living through the Blight had taught him anything, it had been to accept good things as they came his way. And he certainly couldn't complain about that night (_and morning!) _not having been good.

Even as they'd sneaked up into the Inquisitor's quarters there had still been a remainder of doubt over how things would play out between the three of them- whether any unexpected jealousies might surface, whether he'd end up a fifth wheel. He had been very relieved to find himself treated as an equal, fully accepted for whom he was, neither frowned nor taken pity upon. And carnal aspects aside, just that long-forgotten acceptance, that feeling of _belonging_, had been more than worth it. _The carnal bit had been pretty good too, of course._

"Great, Alistair. Just great", he mumbled to himself as he noticed a familiar stirring in his groin. "From bereavement straight to the bees and the birds."

Turning onto his other side, he tried to ignore the growing hardness between his legs, shifting uncomfortably. Eventually he gave up, grunting in mild frustration as he reached into his underpants. Deciding he might as well get it over with so he could go to sleep, he allowed his mind to recall some of the finer details of the night.

_Lady Trevelyan, startled awake, clad only in an oversized men's shirt, the peaks of her nipples just implied under the rough fabric._

He'd long since overcome the Chantry-induced guilt over touching himself, instead recognising the benefits of releasing pent-up tension. _Yes. _That_ was the main reason, of course._ His chuckle turned into a sigh as he felt himself swelling to full length.

_Putting on a display to tantalise her, exploring the sensation of another man against him. Hard panes of muscle pressing into his chest, strong arms holding him; a kiss stolen from the commande__r, almost innocent and so sweet._

A low moan escaped him as he continued to caress himself with languid, firm strokes, eyes falling closed as his breathing picked up.

_The soft weight of Lady Trevelyan's delicate feet in his hands, the velvety feel of her skin as he kissed and nuzzled his way up her thighs; the scent of her arousal invading his senses as he drew closer to her sanctum._

Alistair's thumb swirled the pearly drops of liquid around the head of his now straining length.

_Savouring her peachy flavour, inhaling her heady perfume; trying not to be driven mad by the little noises she was making while he was licking her like a man starved._

Another moan passed his lips, louder now as he felt himself getting close.

_Fingers digging into soft flesh, holding onto those delectably round hips; plunging deep into her, losing himself in that incredibly tight heat …_

He was on his knees now, panting and thrusting into his hand with swift, practiced motions as he pictured the Inquisitor kneeling, mewling in front of him. Three, four more pumps and he spent himself with a strangled groan, quick and quiet, the beads of sweat already cooling on his temples as he slumped back down into the mattress.

Grabbing a handkerchief, he quickly cleaned himself up before disgust at his own sorry, sticky state could set in. When he was done, he extinguished the small candle on his nightstand, leaving the room enveloped in complete darkness.

As his eyes fell shut and his body relaxed against the bed, an idea faintly lingered on his already hazy mind. Denerim Palace hadn't hosted a banquet in a while. _Surely the Inquisition would have to be invited to such affairs, too_.

He made a mental note to have his scribes draft an invitation just before he allowed sleep to take him, drifting off into some distant, quiet corner of the Fade.


End file.
